FIFTY-ONE
DCS Quaino loved DI Damptey’s big, overbearing body, her fat thighs and tremendous buttocks, and when she dressed in one of the dominatrix outfits her cousin had brought her from Amsterdam, he went crazy. Tonight, as she burst out of the bathroom in a red, see-through halter dress with strappy elastic webbed suspenders, black fishnet stockings, stiletto heels and a tiny triangle of black patent leather over the entrance to her pleasure grotto, Quaino’s eyeballs almost exploded from their sockets and he gurgled with excitement. For what had seemed an eternity, he had been lying on the bed waiting for her to emerge in all her glory. They had checked into Labadi Beach Hotel early that evening, he into 321, she into 418, and then he had joined her in her room. As far as their respective spouses were concerned, the two officers were on a highly confidential stakeout that was likely to go all night—don’t wait up.
And Doris had a black whip. My God, that whip made Quaino’s heart beat as if it was trying to break out of his chest. He lay spread-eagled on the bed in his boxers watching her every move as she sashayed around the bed. Her body was bursting out of its outfit—not in a curvy way, but as an undifferentiated mass of flesh, and he loved it.
She stood at the side of the bed and gave him a poke in the ribs with the end of her whip. “You may speak.”
“Yes please, my Queen.”
“Heh!” she snapped. “So, you don’t know how to address me? How do you address me?”
“Em, is it my Queen?” he said, cringing.
“Your Majesty!” she bellowed.
“Yes, yes, Your Majesty. Please, I’m sorry. I beg you, don’t punish me, Your Majesty.”
“You will have to be punished,” she sneered. “You must be punished.”
“I beg you, oo, Your Majesty! I beg you.”
“I will whip you very well on your bottom.”
“Ohh, no please. Your Majesty. Have mercy on me.”
“Turn over on your stomach. Hurry up! I said, turn over.”
Whimpering, he obeyed.
“Pull down your shorts, you miserable subject!”
He shimmied out of them, exposing his round, bulbous buttocks.
“How do you call me?” she growled.
“Your Highness.”
“No!” She struck him across the buttocks, and he jumped and cried out. “How do you call me?”
“Your Lordship.”
Whack!
“My Queen.”
Whack! Whack!
Quaino howled in exquisite ecstasy. “My Lady.”
She hit him again and again. He was sobbing and laughing at the same time. “No please, please, please.”
“Turn over,” she commanded.
“Yes please. Your Majesty.”
“Ei!” she exclaimed as he faced upward. “Did I permit you to display such an egregious erection of your male organ?”
“No,” he stammered. “No please, Your Majesty.”
“What is this thing, eh?” she said, softly stroking his tumescence. “I think I have to punish it. How should I punish it?”
“Your Majesty,” he whispered, “whatever pleases Your Majesty.”
She dropped the whip and clambered on the bed to straddle him. “Like this?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said, close to tears of joy.
“Don’t touch me!” she said as he tried to reach for her body. She leaned forward and pinned his hands at the side of his head while she bounced on him like a flabby rubber ball.
“You like to be punished, you bad man,” she said. “Bad man.”
He began to tense. “Yes, I like to be punished, Your Majesty.”
“Don’t ejaculate in me,” she warned.
“No, no,” he muttered, just as he began to convulse. He struggled to pull out just in time.
He let out one last moan and fell asleep almost instantly.
Doris rolled off him and propped herself on her elbow to observe him snoring. “Men,” she said, shaking her head. “Hopeless.”
Early in the morning while it was still dark, Quaino rolled over, opened his eyes, and stared at the ceiling.
“DI Damptey,” he said.
She popped her head up. “Yes, boss?”
“Sit up. I need to talk to you.”
“Yes please,” she said, scrambling upright in bed.
“We are in a little bit of hot water,” Quaino said.
“Please, meaning?”
“Yesterday at close of business, DCOP Laryea called me about your case—the missing American. He’s getting pressure from Director-General Andoh, and he in turn is feeling the heat from the IGP. Laryea wants to see both of us on Monday.”
“Oh,” she said. That was serious.
“Yes,” Quaino said. “And you know Laryea doesn’t joke around. I fear him more than the director-general.”
“Yes please.”
“I haven’t checked with you about the case lately,” Quaino said, worried. “Are you about to make any arrest?”
“Arrest?” She went hot in the face. “Not as yet.”
“Why not?” he said.
“I’m still working on it.”
“We have to get something—somebody,” Quaino said, “by Monday morning.”
“We don’t have any evidence tying anyone to the crime,” she stammered. “I don’t even know where the American is.”
He grunted and they stayed silent awhile. Now he sat up. “But we do have evidence!” he said. “It has been staring us in the face. Come on, get dressed. We have an arrest to make.”